The Elmo Slippered Bandit Part II

The second installment in the story of America’s silliest criminal mastermind 

If you haven't read part one of this story none of this will make since so  click this link and catch up, or 

be royally confused.

I returned my focus to my notepad, a little perturbed by the display, but determined to break my writers block once and for all.

            I sat with my pen poised above the yellow page, eager to share with the world the wonderment I knew hid somewhere in my soul, but within seconds my eyes glazed and my thoughts drifted aimlessly.

            After a good long bit of staring into space I was jarred from my useless reverie by a string of obscene, yet elegant, profanities far too graphic to repeat.
            I jerked my head toward the X-Rated tirade to see the beslippered ragamuffin on his feet, his finger in the face of poor Tim who looked close to tears.

            “Those sunglasses are my daughters, you Bastard!” he shouted in an accusatory tone. “Why the hell would you want to steal little girls glasses Tim, I thought we were closer then that!”

            “Sir, I brought your orange juice,” the waiter said; glass in hand, eyes on his shoes, obviously wishing he were anywhere else. “I didn’t try to take your sunglasses, sir.”

            Hearing this the drunk immediately turned from outraged fiend on the edge of violence into a docile fawning child eager to repair his new friendship.

            “I’m sorry, Tim,” he said, patronizingly patting the young man on the shoulder, gently prying the juice out of his hand. “I didn’t mean to yell, its just they’re my little girl’s, y’know.”

            Glancing over Tim’s shoulder, the pajama-wearing patron noticed his outburst had drawn attention from the rest of the dinner’s clientele.

            “The hell are y’all looking at?” he demanded.

            Orange juice held aloft in one hand, Hello Kitty frames in the other, the scraggly stranger stepped around Tim the waiter, to be better viewed by his audience.

            “I’ll bet none of you heathens would shell out the cash to get your kid shades this nice,” he slurred flamboyantly. “Limited edition, collectable they said… but she wanted them… so I got them… So don’t look at me like I’m a bad father, you pricks…”

            From there his speech degenerated into a list of all of our supposed personal flaws to including some bizarre sexual proclivities I didn’t understand until I looked them up online later.

            As the wild eyed young man spoke, Tim scurried back to the kitchen and the AA members began to trade worried glances and grip their coffee mugs with white knuckles, as if they feared proximity to this addict mid-binge might push them over the edge and off the wagon.

            A trucker sitting clear on the other end of the dinning room had enough and stormed out dropping a 10 next to the cash register, no even waiting for the recipe needed to collect his per diem.

            Eventually the Elmo Slippered buffoon tired of his rant and returned to his booth, where he gulped down half of his juice in one go before reaching into the pocket of his sponge bob pajama pants to retrieve a flask, the contents of which he dumped over his remaining juice without even a glance toward the wait staff, who unfortunately pointedly ignoring him.

            He took a sip of the cocktail and smacked his lips in alcoholic ecstasy. Losing interest in his fellow patrons (much to their relief) he began to grin at his reflection in the window adjacent to his booth.

            While other diners, grateful for a reprieve from the freak show that played out before them over the past 10 minutes or so, returned to their meals and conversations, I continued to study the young man, fascinated and appalled by his behavior in equal measures.

            For the first time in weeks I felt the squeaky grind and clack of my creative wheels slowly begin to turn somewhere in the back of my head.

            With my eyes glued to the young man, who now seemed to be holding a hushed conversation with his reflection, my hand began to idly search for my pen.

            “Sir, can I get you a refill?”

With a start I tore my eyes away from what I hoped was a one sided conversation, to see Tim standing next to my right shoulder, coffee pot in hand. So intent was I on the young ne’er-do-well’s antics that I didn’t notice the waiter’s approach.

  “Sure, buddy” I said holding up my mug.

“Are you doing ok over there,” I asked nodding toward the Elmo slippered fiend, who had finished his conversation, and was now looking around the room for some other amusement. “Can’t you just throw him out?”

Tim managed to shrug his shoulders dejectedly, while pouring, without spilling a drop of scalding hot Columbian roast on my hand. I’d have to tip him well.

“The cops would have to shut the place down and get statements from everybody in here,” he said. “The manager thinks its better to serve him and get him out of here as quickly as possible.”

            “Maybe it won’t be an issue,” I said once again nodding toward the stranger who was making a beeline for the door.

            “Oh thank God,” Tim’s words came out like a sigh of relief.

            Unfortunately for the waiter, Elmo, as I decided to call him, simply stuck his head out the doorway for a few seconds before ducking back into the restaurant.

            “Needed to make sure my truck was still out there,” he said loudly and to no one in particular.

The Hello Kitty shades once again covered his Johnny Rotten eyes and, from my seat 20 feet away I could detect the pungent scent of OJ and tequila from where it had dribbled on his Cowboys T-shirt.

For some reason Elmo took notice of me sitting unobtrusively in my booth and I made the mistake of meeting his eyes.

The drunk took my gaze as an invitation and sauntered over, sliding smoothly into the booth, leaning his back against the wall, and swinging his red-furred feet to rest on the cushioned bench.

Resting his chin in the palm of his right hand, he looked at me over the lenses of his pink sunglasses and asked, “What kind of car do you have, friend.”

The smell of the guy was overpowering, but for better or worse this disgusting excuse for a dinner companion was my muse, so I breathed through my mouth and engaged him politely.

“I just have a bike,” I said trying to sound easygoing, but coming off just north of a nervous wreck. “You know, good for the body, good for the environment and whatnot.”

 I could almost see Elmo roll his eyes behind his dark glasses. He looked about ready to give me hell for being a granola-chewing hippy freak, when he noticed Tim who still stood slightly to my right, coffee pot still in clasped tightly in his hand like a tiny glass shield.

“Tim, where the fuck are those pancakes?”

“Um, I’ll go check with the cook,” the kid said fleeing toward the kitchen.

Elmo turned his attention back to me and made a sour face.

“A bike, huh,” he said dismissively. “I’ve got an F150. Now there’s a man’s truck right there, brother!”

“Yeah, I hear their grea…” I said, again trying to be friendly, but getting cut off.

“Of course it’s great! A solid American truck that I paid good money for!”

“Sure, sure buddy, I’m with you all the way,” I said, but he wasn’t paying attention anymore, because Tim had emerged from the kitchen plate in hand.

Without another word or even another glance in my direction my fragrant new friend practically leapt from my booth and pounced on the plate of pancakes, ripping it from Tim’s hand without a word of gratitude. I believe he had a slice of bacon in his mouth before he even made it to his seat.

After about 30 seconds of shoveling food into his mouth in a manner usually reserved for cartoon characters, he reached for his cocktail only to find the glass empty.

“Tim!” he shouted boisterously to the waiter, who had already retreated back into the kitchen. “Be a doll and get daddy another juice.”

By the time the waiter returned with the OJ, Elmo was almost finished with his meal.

I glanced down at my pie, now cold, with the whipped cream melted off into a puddle. Despite his obvious disregard for anything resembling human decency, I found myself envying the gusto with which Elmo attacked his food. Hell, attacked life. I hadn’t felt as passionate about anything as that crazy young man felt about his pancakes in a very long time.

With these thoughts pinging around my brain like a pinball, my fingers found my pen and began to write, even as I watched the man-child devour the last of his flapjacks.

  In my periphery I could see the AA members preparing to leave, standing up, stretching, and pulling out their wallets.

I didn’t really pay them any mind as they left, my attention absorbed with the glorious mess before me, collecting left over syrup on his fingers and plunging them into his mouth, but I did notice they made a special effort to ignore his antics.

 Soon after they left, Elmo lept toward the door, and I thought he’d pull a dine-and-dash, but he once again stuck his head out for a couple seconds before heading back to his table.

“Gotta look out for those alkies, man,” he said to no one in particular. “Thought they were going to jack my truck.”

He’d no sooner sat down than he stood back up and headed toward the lavatories.

I took this brief reprieve to look down at my yellow note pad. I’d scrawled such gems as Johnny Rotten Eyes, stinking of booze and bong water, and the confidence of 12 tequila shots.

My lips parted in a little smile and picking up my fork I shoveled a mouthful of cold blueberry filling into my mouth.

I had a character. Now all I needed was a story.

There was a crash from the bathroom, and a moment later Elmo came out, giggling and bouncing with glee.

He didn’t say anything, and instead of returning to his booth, he casually sauntered by the AA table, where he collected the bills piled in aprecation of Tim’s long suffering service.

Ok, I thought. This guy is interesting, but I can’t let him steal poor Tim’s tip.

I searched the room with my eyes looking for any of the restaurant’s staff but seeing none in the dining room I got up and positioned myself between the drunk and the door.

I was nervous, my last fight having been in middle school almost 20 years ago I really wasn’t sure what to do in this situation.

When Elmo took a step toward me I put a hand up and said.

“Buddy, I can’t let you lev…”

Elmo swiped my hand aside and for a moment his greasy forehead filled my vision… then I blacked out.

I awoke to searing pain in my nose and the sight of Tim’s pasty face hovering inches above from mine.

“I think he’s waking up!” he shouted, drawing my attention away from the pain in my ears, but really driving home the ache setting in behind my temples.

I groaned and began to sit up, feeling dizzy, but determined.

“Easy there son,” said a voice from my left. “Looks like he broke your nose, and you’ve probably got a concussion.

Turning my head was probably a bad idea but it gave me a view of the man addressing me, a heavy-set, middle-aged man in police blues.

Despite the throbbing in my nose and cranium I grinned.

“That’s alright, officer. It makes for a hell of a story.”